


The Fire Remains

by crowry, whiskerbeast



Series: Small World [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: A Very Ugly Hat, Alternate Universe - Magic, Fantasy, Multi, Oppressive Government, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:57:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowry/pseuds/crowry, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskerbeast/pseuds/whiskerbeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a mutant is oppressed by his government, two teenage girls plot the end of a political regime, a princeling becomes an exile, and a quest is formed on the behalf of a beekeeper without his knowledge. Involving several social, political, and literal misfires, a (pale) romancing in a mountain cave, and war waged abreast a clockwork dragon. </p>
<p>Containing: a number of on-screen kisses, several hundred acts of treason, three or so trinkets of extreme sentimental value, the verbal abuse of an offensive hat; one or more instances of poorly timed flushed overtures, and exactly one tantrum involving a cool kid, a glacier, and a pair of sunglasses. Main story of the Small World series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fire Remains

Handler Ezran, though tired, is unaffected by the small body in front of you both. You find yourself wishing it wasn't dead. It's hard enough to undress a living thing; the troll's elbows won't bend correctly out of its shirtsleeves, and the week-long trip from Canton's capitol has made the corpse rancid.

"What even happened," you ask, tugging off a half-shredded boot. It sticks slightly to the blood on the troll's leg. "It looks like an animal attack. By the severity of these wounds it's a near miracle you survived."

"Humans," he grunts, sick bureaucrat smile showing thick, curved fangs. "They attacked as we were leaving the city."

Your knowledge of humans is, you admit, rather limited, but you have a hard time picturing even the slightest of trolls being overtaken by them. You choose not to comment, and drop your eyes back to the task at hand. One of the sleeves comes away at the seam, and you frown. You doubt these clothes will ever be the same.

"I do not know how much I can do for this chemise," you say. You inspect the gashes in the shirt, rimmed with drying blood, and give the mirroring wounds on the body a once-over. "It's good you were able to escape. These claw marks look vicious."

He snorts. "If you're finished, Shreddy Swillblood and I have an appointment with the Imperial Baykeep."

"Nearly," you say. As if you aren't going as quickly as you can. Beside you lies a neat pile of fuchsia uniform, looking wasted and impossible; the color clashes terribly with the bright red blood staining it. The hat is unscathed, as are the gloves and one of the boots, but the pants will take careful mending. The shirt will take magic. You anticipate remaking it, and wonder if you will be permitted to improve it at all. (Most likely not.) There remains an undershirt on the body, but it's beyond repair. You cannot even tell what color it was originally.

You wipe the tacky spots of blood off on your apron and stand.

"You're to take the garments to the replacement immediately for a fitting," Ezran says, tugging the body up by a handful of hair and horn. "Don't dawdle; I've sent for him already."

"I understand," you say, cataloguing the damage more closely as you fold each garment. The prospect of clothing another individual in these turns your enteric repository. Still, your job means delaying your own appointment with the Imperial Baykeep, so you bundle the ruined uniform into your arms and walk into the hall. Ezran is dragging his dead charge down the hallway in front of you, so you turn the opposite direction. Taking the long way to the fitting chamber is, in this case, entirely worthwhile.

The palace from the outside is an impressively lit, spindly black affair. It turrets beautifully into coral-like spires that meet at the top to form a trident, the imperial insignia. Rumor has it that this is where the Condesce herself lives. You can confirm this, thanks to unnameable highblood sources.

Inside, and especially in the bowels of the place, everything is the drab grey of shale. Dim season does nothing to help your feeling of imminent despair as you climb into yet another suspended staircase. The sopor lights affixed to the walls turns your skin a sickly lime, and you desperately miss home.

Your thoughts are interrupted by unnameable highblood sources coming down the stairs towards you. He is wearing a deep purple jacket with bone-white epaulets, a half cape, and his hair is done up in his usual pompadour, framed by his crooked horns. You raise your eyebrows at him.

"Hey Kan," he says, looking surprised to see you. You do a sort of silly dance, trying to get past each other, before both stopping half-way there. "What's that you've got there?" he asks, gesturing down at you with a twitch of his hand.

  


You look down at the pile of neatly folded rags in your arms and shrug helplessly. "It was a regulation Ambassholeador's Uniform. I am not very sure what it is now, to be honest."

"Oh," he says. His hands flex at his sides. He's wearing gloves in a repugnant shade of indigo. "What are you doin' with somethin' like that?"

“It is to go to the newest recruit,” you say, shifting your grip uncomfortably. “After I have fitted them and mended these."

He continues to stare at you. Your eyes are on a level with his crotch, which is also clothed repulsively in pinstriped pants. "Commodore," you sigh, "I believe I advised you to throw those away last perigree. And the one before that."

“Come on, Kan, these’re fintastic. They make my ass look great, everyone says so."

Were your hands free, you would use one to cover your face. You close your eyes instead. "Yes, Commodore, that is exactly my problem with them."

He snorts, hopping down a step. His boots clack loudly; you wonder how you did not hear him approaching.

"If you'll excuse me," you say. "I am on a schedule."

"Aren't we all," he replies, flinging his cape over his shoulder. You are behind him now and feel it is safe to grimace.

"Yes," you sigh, "very."

"Sea you aroun', Kan," he says, and clops off to wherever it is he is going; you were so appalled by his clothing that it had not occurred to you to ask. You wait until you see the tail of his cape disappear around a corner to continue upwards.

When you enter the seamstress’ chambers, you go about arranging the clothes in the correct order, draping them on a free mannequin and wishing you could throw them out a window. If you had a choice in the matter, you would never dare to put such items on a living creature, but unfortunately, such is your job. You tack them together where you can and retrieve a pincushion from a drawer.

Ten minutes later, you hear your client arrive in the adjoined fitting room. You puff out a sigh and brace yourself for a very morbid fitting.

It takes you a moment to locate the troll, as his face and clothing are the same color as your walls. He is smaller than his predecessor, vaguely brick-shaped with horns that barely show through his tangled thatch of hair, and an expression like he was the one just stripping down a dead body and dealing with the fashion apocalypse that is Commodore Ampora. He looks shell-shocked and frail; altogether a poor choice of representation for your race.

His handler is another blueblood, this one more monstrously huge than Ezran but also more timid looking. He is hunched in your doorway, sweating profusely.

"I'll be outside," he says, and gently pulls the door shut. It rattles in its frame.

“Good morning,” you say after a pause on the long side, blinking between the door and the mutantblood, who is immobile against your wall. It occurs to you that making this uniform fit him in any way is going to require serious finagling. Imperial seamstresses ought to do more than tailor shrouds.

  


"Hi," he says. "Is that hat really part of the uniform, or is it here for scare tactics?"

You allow yourself a small smile. "Both, I think." He frowns. (He was already frowning, but manages to give the impression of doing it again.)

"I'd like to make this as quick as possible," you say. "These are in quite a state and it will take me a while to mend them. I apologize for the smell."

"Okay," he says. "I'm ready."

You take his measurements down quickly. The boots are the right size, thankfully, and the hat stays in place well enough despite his horns. You refrain from telling him that it looked more dignified on the last ambassholeador, who was a week dead and bloody on the floor of a culling cell.

You notice as he strips out of his pants and shirt that he is holding his breath. His face is turning an incredible shade of red.

"They wouldn't let me wash these beforehand," you say apologetically. "They were very adamant that I fit you immediately."

He simply looks at you.

"By 'they' I of course mean your predecessor's handler," you add.

Again, he says nothing, though he at least begins breathing again. He raises his arms over his head to help the shirt on, and accidentally puts his hand through one of the tears in the chest. "Sorry," he gasps. "Skies, that was so stupid."

You guide his hand back through to avoid tearing it any further, and have to resist the urge to lightly pap his shoulder. That would be gauche.

"You're fine," you assure him. He nods, and says nothing else for the rest of the fitting.

The pants are miraculously his size, if a little long, but in addition to tedious repair, the shirt and cape are going to require taking in. At least that will give you more fabric to work with, you think.

"Okay," you say after double checking your measurements and notes. "I think that's all for now."

Like clockwork, his handler opens the door, which flies ajar so forcefully that the knob hits the wall behind it. "Are you ready," he asks. "I'm to take you back to your cell for briefing."

The mutant shrugs, stepping away from you as he tugs his own shirt back over his head.

"I'll send for you if I need more measurements," you tell him. He nods. You smile at his handler and say, "You may leave the door open, please."

"Yes," the blueblood agrees, looking relieved, "Very well."

As you take the heavily pinned uniform back into the work room, you sigh. You're unfamiliar with the practices of the ambassholeadors, but one thing is for certain: that boy is a disaster waiting anxiously to happen.


End file.
